


based in sensation

by fishydwarrows



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Not Beta Read, Philosophy, Philosophy but kinda sexy, Sexual Tension, The Bridge Chapter (Detroit: Become Human), hank and connor briefly debate metaphysicality and then kiss lol, i was frantically flipping through my philosophy notes for this lmao, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 06:06:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16470176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishydwarrows/pseuds/fishydwarrows
Summary: "All knowledge is based in sensation" -- George BerkeleyConnor and Hank lightly debate personhood, then kiss.





	based in sensation

**Author's Note:**

> for those interested, I drew on John Locke's philosophy of the idea and a little bit of George Berkeley's immaterialist works. This was my first time writing Connor's POV so please treat it with care ^^
> 
> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed it! Thank you for reading!

The first thing Connor registers about the park is that it is unoccupied.

Hank had left the car some minutes ago, carrying with him a six-pack he had bought on the way. Connor runs his hands across the sunken fabric of his seat. His auditory processors identify many sounds: the blaring music of Midnight Cry by White Stag, the rush of traffic from the nearby highway, the soft sound of water gently lapping at a brick wall, the creak of a swing, Hank’s breathing.

 A task prompt appears at the forefront of his vision: **DEBRIEF WITH HANK**. Connor sights him through his peripherals. His vision zooms automatically and brings up Hank’s local identification: ANDERSON, HENRY. _09/06/1985_ Police Lieutenant. _Criminal Record:_ **None.** HANK **^** WARM.

Connor starts slightly in the night air. He had turned his sensitivity levels to the highest setting for peripheral aid in his search for the Traci’s. He had felt every grasp, kick, pull. The rain. The gun in his hand. He tugs his Cyberlife jacket closer to his chest shivering. He’ll turn them down later.

Hank perches on a bench overlooking the river. The creak of the swing becomes audible to human hearing levels. Hank’s blood-alcohol content increases. Connor steps by the bench and watches Hank inebriate himself. It tugs at something in his chest cavity. A warning pops into his vision: **THIRIUM PUMP ACTIVITY INCREASED**. He blinks, and it disappears.

“Nice view, huh?” Hank says.

Connor follows the Lieutenant’s line of sight. The night sky is dark, devoid of most stars, yet the lights of the city twinkle in the distance. The promise of snow is fulfilled on the rails and concrete. Connor registers a faint honking and he receives a notification of an accident on the faraway bridge. He files it away, creating a reminder for Hank to take an alternate route back to the station.

“I used to come here a lot, before.” Hank sighs.

A pause.

Hank’s breath is white and visible under the fluorescent sheen of the street light.

“Can I ask you a personal question, Lieutenant?” Connor asks. The wind softens his words, his tone is smoother – a byproduct of his social relations protocol.

Hank turns at last and frowns, eyebrows raised: “Do all androids ask so many ‘personal questions,’ or is it just you?”

Connor weighs his options. He could ask about the picture. He knows, _knows_ that Hank would deflect, be displeased. Similarly, if he broached the topic of the gun. His internal processors whir, conjuring up the 1080p memory of the night before. The gun: one bullet in its chamber. Hank: on the floor. Connor’s mouth twists.

A third option blinks onto his radar:

 **X** _DEVIANTS_.

He chooses it.

“What do you truly think of the deviants?” Connor hugs himself, the cold air sending a chill down his artificial vertebrae. He considers turning his sensitivity down. He doesn’t.

Hank laughs, loud and sharp. Connor’s audio processors do not register feedback, but it is a close thing. His internal programming doesn’t register the laugh as anything but noise. Yet Connor appreciates it. A prompt automatically jumps into his view: **HANK SHOULD LAUGH MORE OFTEN**. Connor blinks it away.

“Shit,” Hank laughs again, tired this time.

“I feel like it should be me askin’ that, not you.”

Connor tilts his head, confused. “What do you mean, Lieutenant?” He says. Hank sets his beer on the bench beside him and stands.

“I mean…Fuck, Connor. You could have shot those two girls, but you didn’t.” Hank is turned away from him, facing the water. Connor cannot read his expression.

“I…” Connor begins. But what. He did not want— did not require – yet his software had shifted, risen, and he had felt an instability. Again, he feels it. “I – I simply would like to hear your views on android autonomy, Lieutenant. You insist that you hold a great disdain – hate – for androids, yet you refuse to elaborate further.” Hank’s figure stiffens, a great dark shadow in the artificial light.

“I would know your thoughts on the matter. These deviants emulate empathy, but _do they feel?_ ”

Connor recoils at his own words. A warning again pops into his vision: **THIRIUM PUMP ACTIVITY INCREASED**. It blinks at him in the night. Another notification signals behind his artificial eyes **: INTERNAL FANS ACTIVATED**.

 **INTERNAL HEAT LEVELS RISING**.

 He lets out a shaky breath. Hank turns, his gaze sharp and focused despite Connor registering his blood-alcohol content as above the legal limit.

“A feeling’s just a sensation, right?”

Hank moves forward.

“I can see you."

He steps again into Connor’s immediate vicinity.

“and you can see me, right?”

Several alerts alight in Connor’s vision, but he is caught in the Lieutenant’s gaze. He feels his Thirium Pump skip slightly, a response to the speed at which his processors are working. Connor swallows. He does not need to do it. It is an unnecessary action.

“I can see you.” He says. His voice is low.

“And you can smell, hear, touch – taste.” Hank continues, his eyes momentarily glance to Connor’s lips. A movement quick enough that an average human might not catch it. Connor is not human. He sees.

“All those things, they make up a whole. A complex result. Who’s to say emulation isn’t the same as reality?” Hank raises an eyebrow. Connor looks away, the alerts from his system clouding his vision.

“You forget, Lieutenant, that there is no essence in emulation. No substance. How could those sensations be real if they’re immaterial?” The words are heavy in his mouth. They are not his, not anymore.

“Bullshit.” Hank grabs at Connor’s collar, pulling him back. He can feel the heat of Hank’s breath, the biting winter air.

“You ask me a question and then reject my answer, huh, Connor? Is that it?” Hank almost growls. He feels the pull of Hank’s hands on his jacket. Connor breathes fast.

 **THIRIUM PUMP OPERATING AT HIGH SPEED** , his vision says.

“I would like to properly assess your opinion, Lieutenant.” Connor says, but it is not what he means. He doesn’t know what he means. Not anymore. Hank’s grip tightens. He laughs, it is sharp and edged with something dangerous.

“Say what you really mean, Connor. What do you _want_?” This close Connor can register Hank’s vitals. The Lieutenant’s heart shows signs of increased speed and activity. Hank’s eyes are dilated. There is a flush of blood in his face, pink dusting his nose. Connor does not want, cannot want. But he _knows_ in his core that is a lie _._

“I would – “He begins but there is something in his way.

A task prompt, new, blocking his path: **DEFLECT ANSWER**.

His action is conscious and not. He tears at the wall with a fervor that shakes him. He wants this. He wants an answer. Connor blinks and his vision clears.

“I want to know what you think.” He says. The words are out of his mouth before he knows what he’s said, done. Connor shivers, a deep sense of guilt lodges in his chest cavity. The cold is not the only thing chilling this night. But there is a clarity he feels.

_He feels._

“I think that these deviants are _feeling_ something. And I think you know it too.” Hank says, quiet.

Connor stares. The sounds of the outside are somehow muffled. It is as if they are alone together. In a sense, they are. Hank again glances to Connor’s lips. Connor’s proximity sensors ping. They are close.

“I want…” He begins.

“What?” Hank breathes.

“What do you want?”

Hank’s hands have not left Connor’s collar. It is a cold night. There is a gap between them.

Connor looks at Hank’s lips with a movement slow enough for an average human to catch. Hank is human. He sees.

“You.” Connor whispers.

Hank pulls Connor in, and closes the gap.

**Author's Note:**

> Connor: hey hank do u think deviants have feelings
> 
> Hank: uh yeah why
> 
> Connor: im horny for some philosophy
> 
> Connor:
> 
> Connor: and you


End file.
